


The Artist

by nyxxbx



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Lavellan/Solas Fluff (Dragon Age), Pining Solas (Dragon Age), Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxxbx/pseuds/nyxxbx
Summary: Solas simply can't stop thinking about Lavellan.This was inspired by @inn_havi 's prompt challenge for January, though I've started a bit too soon and wanted to post this.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	The Artist

Hissing Wastes were silent in the night. Unusually silent. He contributed such oddity to the woman a few strolls in front of him, and he felt a warm feeling spread through his chest, stopping at his neck. He did not need a reflection to know that there was a lingering crimson coating his skin. His fingers gripped the stick of coal, sparks of a flame lighting across his fingertips, and he could feel it melt. His lip twitched in discomfort, and he dropped the coal in his lap to let it cool. Granite eyes lingered on the scene outside the tent and he suddenly grew aware of her belongings next to him, the fabric of her bedroll just barely grazing his. He let out a sigh, imitating the woman in front of him as he gazed upon the stars.

Before they made camp, Cassandra was frustrated and Solas could see by the way she clenched her fist that she was ready to punch something – _or_ rather someone. His feet instinctively shifted a few steps away from the wrath of the Seeker, still remembering the harshness of her temper when he was but an apostate, studying the Breach. He felt his stomach tighten as momentary melancholy settled deep inside.

„We won't be able to make camp here. If it's not the Venatori, then the lurkers will be sure to ambush us. We should be on our way to Skyhold, not strolling through this wasteland.“ She said, and her voice was unusually strained.

He was certain that nothing but a training dummy could destroy Seeker Pentaghast's foul mood.

Dorian followed behind the group, his weary form relying on his staff as he walked. His lips opened as he let out a breath, no, not a breath– a cautious scoff. Solas noticed the way Inquisitor's golden eyes narrowed at Dorian's _sigh,_ and he could see a smile ghosting her lips.

His heart stuttered at the sight, an uncomfortable feeling settling over his chest.

She turned towards Cassandra, a friendly hand placed on the tense shoulder of the Seeker. „Cass, when did I ever let us get ambushed by anyone? They should be calling _us_ lurkers, at least we're quieter.“ Her soft voice trembled in the decaying sun and Solas held his breath as he watched her wink at Cassandra.

A smile finally rose on The Inquisitor's lips, a gentle one, lingering in the glow of her eyes and ascending to her furrowed brow. „Solas will place wards and I'll keep watch. There is nothing to worry about.“ The scar on her temple stretched. His heart stuttered, a heavy sensation, the sound of his name on her lips something tempting.

His fingers itched and he rubbed them together behind his back.

Solas wished to draw her then. That gentleness that seemed to be present only when she deemed it necessary.

Her hand slipped away from Cassandra's shoulder and for a moment, they walked in peace, eyes alert for danger and a place to rest. He noticed the way her feet would dance through the sand, suddenly slowing as she came to match his pace, her brow still furrowed. She bumped his shoulder with her bicep, and for a moment he wondered what had gotten her so carefree today. She stood on her tiptoes to reach his jaw, and he could feel it clenching. She was surprisingly unpredictable, and he found it to be exhilarating. Hesitantly, he paused his strides to match hers, a cerulean blue before his eyes.

„Make sure to place some silencing charms next to Cassandra's tent. She won't get any sleep otherwise. Every small noise will keep her awake, and she's already restless enough as it is.“ She whispered, brows still furrowed and a hand on his bicep.

The request made his heart stutter, a feeling that already felt familiar this close to her. For someone so young, she was surprisingly observant. He nodded, and she smiled.

His fingers itched again, and he wished to draw. A sweet smile, eyes only reserved for him.

„Inquisitor, if you insist, we could make camp here.“ Cassandra's voice sounded, and she moved away from him with a final glance, and a silent nod.

The valley before them was surrounded by low shrubs and trees, desert rocks scattered throughout the area. Their belongings settled onto the sand and they made their camp in silence, an ocassional order issued or question answered. He placed his pack next to hers in their shared tent and imagined what it would be like to sketch that scar across her temple or the vallaslin that swirled over her features.

He could feel sparks dance across his fingertips at the thought, and frustration bloomed in his stomach.

Unzipping his pack, his fingers enveloped the leather journal, the piece of coal bound next to it. He stopped, shaking his head. No, not now. She was curious, _inquisitive_ , and she would prod with questions and small glances. The journal continued to rest within the safety of his pack.

He exited the tent to find them around a campfire, the flames already burning bright and warm. Solas did not have to be observant to know that it was the courtesy of the Tevinter mage, the flickering of the fire a bit too rambunctious to be natural. Her eyes searched for his, and there they were– glistening, bright and reserved only for him. He took a seat across from her, still hesitant, still a slave to his own restraint. She showed no offense to his choice and he wondered if he would ever be able to read her like an open tome. The flames licked dangerously close to his foot-wraps.

Dorian stretched and groaned. „This sand has no respect for boundaries. My boots are filled with it!“

The Inquisitor chuckled, and the sound made him seek her out. She was arranging the vandal aria and ocassional tuft of spindleweed and elfroot in her herb pack, head cocked to the side. Solas still wondered how she had no magical abilities to manifest, despite being so adept at herbalism. Perhaps, she was hiding it.

„The desert, sand, cold, Venatori, spiders… yes, indeed– who else should we bring but Dorian?“ He continued to complain.

Cassandra scoffed, her form weary and exuding exhaustion.

Dorian grasped his boot by the sole and took it off, turning it upside down to shake the sand out. The particles spilled out upon the ground like a farmer would spill seeds on watered earth. The Inquisitor let out another soft chuckle and Solas' became aware of his heart hammering against his ribcage.

„Look at this!“ Dorian exclaimed. „Absolutely despicable.“

„It's just sand, Dorian.“ She mumbled, reaching down to grasp her pack. Solas watched her thin frame as she pulled out a steel dagger, the length of it perfectly fitting in her palm, and two strips of a wooden bark he presumed to be sandalwood, from their expedition in the Plains.

„I'm aware of its definition, Lavellan. That doesn't make it any less annoying, mind you.“ He slipped the boot back on, securing the straps.

„If it is that bothersome, why not use magic?“ Cassandra asked and Solas felt a chuckle claw at his throat. He cleared his throat silently, catching the attention of a bright gaze, eyes only reserved for him.

„And do what exactly? Make barriers around my boots to repel it?“ Dorian continued, „I do wonder how you elves survive with just those flaps of cloth around your feet! Doesn't it get cold? Sore? Sliced?“

Cassandra let out an exasperated sigh, and Lavellan narrowed her eyes at Dorian. „Perhaps it does, Dorian. You do enough whining for the three of us, though.“

„That's because the three of you are dreadfully quiet. I believe Cole is more talkative than you.“

Solas could feel the building frustration from the Seeker, and in an attempt to mediate the situation, he stood up. „Inquisitor– I will go and set wards, secure the area.“

His sudden motion earned him her startled gaze, the corners of her eyes softening as she focused on his words. He could have sworn he saw them linger on his lips, and his heart stuttered. The hands behind his back turned into fists.

„That's a great idea, Solas. Cassandra, why don't you retire for the night?“ She spun the dagger in her hand, the lilt of her voice enveloped in a confident and authoritative blanket she had learned from Josephine.

It sent tingles down his spine.

„Inquisitor, I–„ Cassandra was quick to argue.

The Inquisitor shook her head. „I said I'd keep watch, Cass. Get some rest.“

Cassandra looked conflicted, if for a moment and then she bowed her head in thanks and slipped into the tent behind her. Solas indulged himself in a final glance, and left to secure the area. His magic danced across his fingertips and he felt at ease as the turquoise light flared around him. The arrow of the first protection ward was drawn by his finger and he whispered the words needed to activate it. His footsteps were silent as he moved to the next corner.

„And you,“ he could hear the Inquisitor say. He snuck a glance and watched as she pointed towards Dorian with her dagger, „stretch out your leg.“

„You know, when you point that thing at me, no one in their right mind would trust you.“ Dorian sassed.

„I suppose you're insane, then.“

„Any man would be insane not to listen to you, darling.“

The silence that followed made Solas turn his attention entirely to the pair before the campfire. He could see the blush that coated the Inquisitor's cheekbones, dripping all the way to her neck.

He swallowed, and turned around to start the ward anew. His nostrils flared as he exhaled.

„You see, Cassandra's heavy armour is fitted and sturdy. Your leather has stretched,“ he could hear her say, his whispers of an incantation matching her voice. „So, if I were to do this–„

„Don't ruin the leather!“ 

An exasperated sigh, one he did not hear often from her. „I won't… just– _look_ ,“

With the second corner secured, he moved to the third one, though he let his gaze wander to her. She made him curious.

She was fastening the wooden strip around the top edge of his boot, weaving it through the straps almost expertly. She was biting her cheek as she focused, form bent, Dorian oddly silent as he watched her. Her dagger slid across the strip as she tightened it around his leg.

„You weave it through the straps, and then when it's around the entire boot… you– either tie it… or if the strip is too short, just tighten it with a dagger.“ She murmured.

„You haven't forgotten that I'm a mage, my dear, have you? I don't work with daggers. Such business is awfully dangerous for my fingers.“

„A child could do this, Dorian.“ She released his leg, patting his knee.

„Certainly, children make belts for boots all the time.“ He added sarcastically.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips still pursed, her gaze piercing.

Solas wished to draw. That sharp look in her eyes. The slope of her nose. Lips tight, jaw clenched and– _right_ … protection wards and silencing charms.

„So could you do that in the morning for me then? I fear it is already too late for me to become a cordwainer.“ He heard Dorian say, his tone sardonic.

„What's a cordwainer?“

„Oh, my _darling_ winter child… a shoemaker, of course.“

Solas did not have to see the slap to know that it happened. It echoed through the valley and if it weren't for the silencing charms he had placed behind the Seeker's tent, he was certain she would've been awake and fuming. A small smile graced his features and he felt that unnatural feeling of warmth spread through his stomach. Perhaps this world was not as monotone as he first declared it to be.

Dorian had retired to his tent with new knowledge and a red mark upon his unclothed bicep.

Solas watched the fabric of the tent above him, his neck stiff from the uncomfortable ground beneath him. He did not believe a stiff neck was the source of his restlessness, though. His eyes closed and he saw her. Golden eyes, _vallaslin_ the colour of her armour – a midnight blue, a colour she seemed to adore – narrow nose, an expression of wonder, curiosity, adoration. His heart stuttered and he shifted to his side, letting out an exhale.

She was curious. So odd. Unordinary. Nothing like the tranquil world his slumber had brought him to.

The new position did nothing to ease his thoughts, he could feel an electricity course through his spine and settle at his head, almost as if his own body was punishing him for having his eyes closed and indulging in a moment of respite.

His fingers itched and he wished to draw.

Frustration bloomed in his stomach, along with something else, something he did not wish to perceive. At least, not yet.

Grabbing his pack, his fingers enveloped the smooth sheet of paper and the stick of coal. Flames pricked at his fingertips and the coal warmed. Inwardly, he cursed, dropping it into his lap to let it cool. He depicted her in his mind, and yet it was not enough. Not when the real art was a few strolls away from him.

The flap of his tent opened, only slightly and he could feel the genuine joy tearing at his lips at the sight before him. There was a smile on her face as she gazed upon the stars, tight-lipped and thoughtful. She carved constellations in the ground with sharp end of her dagger and mumbled to herself. Stopping, she looked up again, cocking her head to the side. One hand reached up to connect the dots on the night sky, and Solas believed he had never seen a sight more real, more beautiful. She resumed her carvings and he started drawing. A gentle smile, a sweet gesture, an ethereal touch with the sky.

His heart stuttered and his wish was granted.


End file.
